After all, he would not have had it otherwise. The charm, he told

himself, was in the levity of the situation. The thread by which she held

him was so fine that it could be broken any day. There would be no pangs

of conscience, no tears, no reproaches; no tyrannies of the heart and

revolutions of the soul. It was to Mrs. Nevill Tyson's eternal credit

that she made no claims. Clearly, when a tie can be broken to-morrow,

there is no urgent necessity for breaking it to-day.

So in the afternoon Stanistreet called again at Ridgmount Gardens.

Whether or no Mrs. Nevill Tyson ignored the possibility of passion, she

had the largest ideas of the scope and significance of friendship. She

made no claims, but she exacted from Louis a multitude of small services

for which he was held to be sufficiently repaid in smiles. Whether she

knew it or not, she had grown dependent on him. She had always shown an

affecting confidence in the integrity of masculine judgment, and she

consulted him about her dividends and the pattern of her gowns with

equally guileless reliance.

To-day he found her in a state of agitated perplexity. She put a letter

into his hands. He was to read it; he might skip the first page, it was

all about calico. There--that was what she meant.

The letter was from Mrs. Wilcox imploring her to go back to Drayton "till

this little cloud blows over."

"I don't want to go to Drayton, to those people. They talk. I know they

talk, and I don't like them. Besides, I want to stay in London. Nobody

knows me here except you."

"Do I know you?"

"Well, if you don't, you ought to--by now. I wonder if mother wants me.

She might come here, though I'd rather she didn't. She talks too, you

know; she doesn't mean to, but she can't help it. What I like about you

is--you never talk."

"You won't let me."

"What ought I to do?" she asked helplessly. "Must I go?"

"No," said Louis emphatically. "Don't."

"Why not?"

He tossed the letter aside, and their eyes met.

"It would look like defeat."




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